by Glen Martin Fitch

The theater is empty, dark.
The stage is bare.
My heart is all I hear.
My temples ache.
I'm caught within
a piercing spot light's glare,
That follows every step and turn I take.
I'm tired, pissed.
What contract did I sign?
Where's my director?
Feet up in some seat?
Why am I here?
Who said this script is mine?
I long to stop,
yet once more repeat:
"See HOW you ARE?"
I scream, "Just go way!"
I whine "Why me? Poor me!"
and then I start:
"It's fine. It's fine.
It really is okay."
I even hear me
speak the other's part.
A nightmare gives you
gifts that you can take,
but fret-filled day-mares
never take a break.


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 30, 2011